


A Cowardly Lot

by JoshSpaceCole



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bad Jokes, Banter, Clowns, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Film Noir, Gen, Henchmen, Horror, Killing, Organized Crime, POV Third Person Limited, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Present Tense, Superheroes, Suspense, The Joker's Clowns, Thug Life, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoshSpaceCole/pseuds/JoshSpaceCole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a quiet night for the Joker's crew, but nothing stays quiet for long in Gotham City. Something's hunting these clowns, picking them off one by one, but even giant bats aren't quite as dangerous as the boss himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cowardly Lot

**Author's Note:**

> Batman created by Bob Kane.
> 
> I own nothing.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

 “For Helen,” Bill tells himself. “For Helen and the baby, for Helen and Sarah.”

Bill can feel grey hairs sprouting into his close dark hair. The rain's making his greasepaint, his ridiculous clown make-up, drip into the cracked Gotham sidewalk.

The boy beside him, Anton or something, shoots him a look, oddly grim against the bright red smile. “What you sayin', man?”

Bill waves his hand. “It's nothing. Just mumbling. Old age, you know.”

“You'd better not, though. Folk might notice us.”

“Might notice us?” Bill laughs: the kid's glaring over a red rubber nose, holding an assault rifle that probably outweighs him, and leaning on the door of an abandoned toy factory in the worst part of town. “Anybody walked 'round here this time of night, they'd sure as hell notice us.”

“I don't wanna have to kill no one.”

“You ain't never killed no one, boy, and you ain't about to tonight. Even if they see us, which they won't, cause it's dark as hell up here and there ain't been streetlights since the depression, even if they see us, they turn right the hell around.”

The boy taps his gun on the wall. “Damn right.”

Bill laughs again. “It ain't your gun making 'em turn around, kid.” Bill squeezes his own red rubber nose and it releases a thin squeak. “It's these. It's the crew. Joker's crew.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sarge turns the corner and eyes meet him.

Sarge is a professional, so he only jumps back a little. He doesn't scream at all, he just raises his shotgun.

He growls, “Who's there?”

“Mama.”

Mama. Of course. It's a toy factory, there's gotta be toys. The doll blinks up at his gun barrel, and he almost considers pulling the trigger.

“Stupid thing,” he says, lowering the weapon. He reaches up, scratches under his rubber mask, the crazy clown mask he earned a couple years ago.

“Stupid mask, stupid itchy mask,” he says. The eye-holes shift and he's blind for a moment. The mask's not even big enough for his head. Not like he's fat, it's mostly muscle, but he barely fits in the armored clown suit either. He used to fit, back when he earned it he fit.

While he's busy half-chewing the stained rubber, he hears the footsteps.

He spins, wrenching his mask so he can peer through one of the eye-holes.

Just Stanley. Well, not 'just' Stanley. Stanley isn't a 'just' kind of person; he tends to fill the room and leave most everyone feeling a little used.

“Are we talking to ourselves here, boss?” Sarge doesn't like the way he says the last word. But then, there's not much about Stanley that Sarge does like. The man's make-up is pristine.

Sarge pulls the mask around, wrestling it into something like its designed shape. Finally, his eyes line up, his mouth lines with the frowning clown's mouth. “Just patrolling,” Sarge says. “Keeping an eye out.”

He almost adds, “Like you should be,” like he would to any of his other subordinates. But Stanley doesn't feel like a subordinate. His make-up gives him a permanent, perfect blue smile that makes Sarge squirm.

Stanley nods. “I've yet to find a thing.” When he shrugs, the twin machetes he carries splay haphazardly, like he's forgotten they're weapons. “Kind of a pity, don't you think? All these guys, and nothing to stab.”

“You know, most of us guys carry guns. Then, you know, most of us are happy to earn off a quiet night.”

Stanley spits, his teeth flashing yellow in the dim light. “Most of you just want to earn. Most of you don't understand. No style.” He holds a machete upside down so he can tap his temple knowingly, but Sarge just watches the sword.

“You know how long I been with the boss, Stan.”

“It's Stanley. Stan _ley.”_

“Well, Stan _ley_ , I been with the boss a while, and I know he needs people like me, people who do their jobs. We leave the style to him.”

Stanley sneers as he nods. “I remember The Jack of Clubs.”

Sarge winces. “Brutal, that one. Don't mind saying I got sick when I saw what the boss did.”

“You saw it?” Stanley's eyebrows raise, as if Sarge should be honored.

“I seen a lot,” Sarge says. “Too much.”

 

* * *

 

“Aren't you supposed to patrol inside?” Mr. Stills asks. The rain makes his fingers ache, and the pain erodes what little patience he has. “I got it out here.”

Ralph kicks a broken beer bottle clattering into the night. This makes no dent in the volume of debris littering the factory's back door, so Ralph kicks another. “It's boring in there. Ain't nobody knows we're here.”

Mr. Stills pulls at the white grease-paint clumped in his beard and watches the rooftops. “I'm not worried about just anybody.”

Ralph rolls his blue eyes, but can't resist glancing upward. “Oh right,” Ralph says. The rain's melting his long blonde hair into his make-up, but Joker's men don't carry umbrellas. “Your giant bat.”

“The Batman's real,” Mr. Stills says. Too real, he thinks, rubbing his fingers.

“Sure he is.” Ralph shifts toward the small dry area Mr. Stills stands in, the one under the big plastic teddy bear, but Mr. Stills doesn't move. Ralph's all muscle, much bigger than Mr. Stills, so Mr. Stills would end up wet, he just knows it. He's supposed to be out here, he doesn't want to get any wetter.

Mr. Stills shows Ralph his right hand, where his ring finger's still a little crooked. “The Bat's real. You think I busted these myself?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Ralph says. He's more than six feet tall, thick with muscle, and he's wearing a full clown suit. A sledgehammer hangs from one hand, and he didn't even try to hide the pistols tucked in his bright red suspenders. “You got 'em caught in a safe.”

“I got them slammed in a safe. You know how many safes I cracked? No way I'd get caught in one.”

“No way you'd admit to it, any how.”

Mr. Stills is old enough and wise enough to keep his hand from dropping to his automatic. Still, he lets an edge into his voice. “You calling me a liar?”

“I'm sayin' that's easier to believe than a story about a giant bat.”

“He's not a giant bat,” Mr. Stills says, glaring up at the man beside him. “He's a man dressed like a bat.”

Ralph, incredulous, shakes his head. He looks Mr. Stills in the eyes, weighing him for a moment, before turning away. Mr. Stills lets himself smile at the win.

“Whatever you say, man.”

Mr. Stills nods evenly. “Aren't you supposed to patrol inside?”

Ralph shrugs. “I should get back on patrol.”

“Inside.”

Ralph nods. “Inside.”

 

* * *

 

The old man's just standing there, staring into the dark, and Anton, well, Anton's getting bored. His gun's getting heavy, his feet are getting tired.

He shifts his weight. “How long we gotta wait?”

“Long as it takes.” Anton knows Old Bill's not that old, forties maybe, but he can see how the man got that name. His hair's not all gray yet, but his eyes look tired, his posture wilted. He leans on his rifle like a cane.

“It's taking a while,” Anton says. “Where's the other guys?”

“On patrol,” the old guy grumbles. “Around.”

Anton knows he's supposed to be on guard and all, but he's almost hoping someone tries to get inside. He's heard the rumors, and he knows he's on the wrong side of things, but still, he kinda wants to see the Batman. Anything but night, boring night. “That one guy, guy with the swords, what's his name?”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley, yeah. He some kinda nutcase or what?”

The old man looks over his shoulder, pauses a moment, before he says, “What are you doing here? With this crew, in this kinda life?”

“Me?” Anton shrugs. “I guess it was this or the army, and I didn't want to get far from my Moms. What's that haveta do with anything?”

“Guys in our line of work, they always end up one of two places: Blackgate or Arkham.”

“I don't mind a little time.”

Old Bill raises his eyebrows, maybe almost laughs, but he doesn't. Anton thinks if the guy had laughed, he might have hit him, so he's real glad he didn't. “See, you're a Blackgate. You do this 'cause you gotta. You don't enjoy it.”

Anton shrugs again. “It's better'n school, anyways.”

“What I'm saying though is guys like Stanley, they're Arkhams. Arkhams don't care about the money, about their moms. They just want the hurt. Kid like you, kid with a future, you're better off staying away from their type.”

Anton doesn't like the old man acting like his dad or nothing, but the man's been in the business for a while. “Sure,” he says. “Stay away.”

He shifts his weight again, switches the shoulder that holds the gun. He turns back toward the street, to the boring night, and there's a man standing there.

Stanley.

“My ears are burning.” Stanley's grinning the way a cat would grin. “Someone must be talking about me.”

“How long you been standing there?” Old Bill looks mad mostly, but Anton can tell he's just a little afraid.

Stanley looks up, like he can't remember. “Not long. Got tired of patrol.”

“You're supposed to patrol.”

“I wanna guard now. Watch the door with you, Bill. My old friend.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Anton says. “I got guard duty.”

Stanley's dead eyes roll towards him, and Anton shrinks back, forgetting he's holding an automatic weapon. “You can take my patrol, can't you?” Stanley says. “It's just the third floor.”

“The kid don't want to switch,” Old Bill says. “He ain't supposed to switch.”

Stanley's hand moves maybe half an inch toward a machete, but Anton doesn't want to argue. “I'll do it, sure, whatever.”

“See?” Stanley says. “The kid's my man. He's got me.”

“Third floor?”

“Sure, kid. Just walk in circles, you'll be fine. Me and Bill, we got the entrance.”

Bill's looking at Anton, almost pleading, but Anton's got his own back to watch. He opens the door, goes on inside.

Behind him, Stanley says, “You and me, Bill. We'll have a good time.”

Bill swallows. “A good time,” he says, his hand maybe moving down his rifle. “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Ralph's turned this corner at least a dozen times before. Maybe two dozen. It's dry in here, but nothing happens either, nothing at all.

Ralph's got skill, he's wasted walking in circles. He could be coordinating heists or running hits or even doing books, but no, he's gotta walk in circles, gotta earn his due. He's smarter and stronger than any of the other guys, but the Joker doesn't even know his name.

Not yet, anyway.

A noise comes from upstairs and it's probably just Sarge jumping at shadows, but Ralph's bored enough to run for it. He takes the steps three at a time,waving his hammer in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“Sarge!” he says. “Sarge, you okay?”

It's dark up here, somehow darker than the first floor. Forgotten dolls litter the black corridors. Ralph doesn't scare easy, but he doesn't like the way they look at him. “Sarge?”

He turns another corner and a frowning clown levels a shotgun at his head. Ralph jumps back before he remembers he's a clown too, they're all clowns.

Sarge lowers his gun. “What are you doing up here?”

“Heard something. You okay, boss?”

Sarge scratches under his mask. “Yeah, sure. I didn't hear nothing.”

“Oh,” Ralph says. He lowers his hammer and slips his gun back into his suspenders. “Thought there might be some action.”

“Nope. All quiet downstairs then?”

“Just rats and old pipes.”

“Maybe we'll get a quiet night.”

“Sure.”

“Quiet's good, kid.”

“I can handle real action, is all. I want the real stuff. The real money.”

“You gotta put in the time.”

“When'd he move you up?”

“I been up, I been down. Structure around here's a little... zany. You been with the crew for as long as I have, you get to be everything from Vice President to Capo.”

“And the money? Does it get better?”

“Sure it gets better,” Sarge says. “But if it's just money you're after, you're in the wrong line of work.”

“Well, sure, I know, family, loyalty, all that.”

Sarge shakes his head. “Not that. Belief.”  
Ralph blinks. “Belief?”

“You need faith, kid.”

“Faith in what?”

“The Joker. Who else?”

 

* * *

 

Anton liked it better in the rain. It's just as wet in here, with the dripping ceilings and the damp, but it smells bad too.

He's got the path memorized already, he almost doesn't need his eyes. He feels his clown shoes wearing a path into the rotted floor. There are birds or bats or something trapped inside and he can hear them, but at least there aren't too many rats or anything.

All the toys are downstairs, up here it's just offices and stuff, so he doesn't have any dolls staring at him like they did on his way up.

Still, there are too many shadows, too many shapes.

He thought for a moment a bit back he saw a man, a horned man in the shadows, but he knows the Batman is just a story. One of those they tell new blood, just to keep them on their toes. Just a story. The things he sees, they're just in his imagination.

His least favorite floorboard creaks its distinctive creak, something like a dying animal. That means he's about to a window, the only one not boarded up, his only look at the outdoors since he took this patrol. Downstairs, he can hear the hostages yelling.

He tries not to think about what they're here for. He doesn't know, but he shouldn't think about it anyway. He shouldn't try to guess, it'd probably just make him sick. Or confused: sometimes the Joker's sense of humor just confuses him. All the guys say the money's good though, and Anton needs the money.

He just tries not to hear the screams.

Behind him, a floorboard creaks like a dying animal.

He turns and there's a man there in the darkness, all shadows and horns. He screams and raises his gun, but a black claw slams it to the ground. Wings or a cape billow from the creature, a fist swings out, and Anton falls with a yelp.

 

* * *

 

By the time Stanley hears the scream, he's already grown bored of his old pal. Poor Bill just can't relax, and, now that he's realized Stanley isn't going to hurt him, he's gone all surly and quiet. Not a shout or a squeal from the man any more, and it's almost as dull as the top floor patrol.

He's almost glad he kept quiet when he saw that shadow overhead: now he's got somewhere to go.

“You hear that?” Stanley says.

Bill grumbles at the floor like a child. “Hear what?”

“The scream upstairs. Sounded like the kid.”

“Yeah? Why don't you go check it out?”

“Maybe I will,” Stanley says. “You sure you won't miss me?”

“I'm fine.”

Stanley pulls a machete from the back of his suspenders and leans on the door. “You'll miss me,” he says before going inside.

He doesn't mind the dark inside the factory, doesn't mind the creaking floors or even the scattered toys. He doesn't even need a flashlight. He likes the dark, he can get through it fine.

His shoes flap against the concrete floor, and the sound echoes through empty halls. Ralph's supposed to guard down here, but he's gone. The scream sounded further up though, so the big guy's probably just slacking off somewhere. He's just another thug, no style at all.

Stanley finds the stairwell, and, careful to avoid the crumbling steps, makes his way upward. He knows the Joker'd kill him if he tried for a costume of his own, but sometimes, walking through the dark, Stanley can't help but think about branching out.

He could run this town better than anyone. Joker, Penguin, Two-Face, and Stanley. Stanley the shadow man, Stanley the blood king, Stanley, Stanley, Arkham Stanley.

On the second floor, he finds Ralph and Sarge wagging chins.

“You hear that scream upstairs?” Stanley says.

“Yeah, sure,” Ralph says. “Figured the kid got scared.”

“You shouldn't have switched,” says Sarge. “He's too green to patrol alone.”

Stanley pulls his second machete free. “I'm checking it out.”

Sarge shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

“I will,” Stanley says. “You'd love that.”

 

* * *

 

“I don't hear anything,” Ralph says. “How long's he been up there?”

Sarge shrugs. Clowns don't wear watches.

“He'da said something if he found something, right?”

Sarge shrugs again. “You never know with him.”

Ralph doesn't want to go up there. Just because he's big doesn't mean he doesn't get scared, and that Stanley scares him. “You want me to go up there, boss?”

“Maybe you better. Just in case.”

“Sure, boss. You got it.”

Ralph's a good soldier, and he aims to impress. He doesn't let Sarge see he's nervous, he just swings his hammer onto his shoulder and heads for the stairs.

It's offices up here, which means plenty of hiding spots, plenty of doors, but none of those creepy dolls. “Stanley?” Ralph says. “You up here?”

The only answer comes from a floorboard's dying animal creak. There's a window in front of him, but its thin light only shows an empty floor.

“Stanley? Where'd you go?”

Ralph kicks the door to an office open, but it's clear inside.

“Kid? Where are you? Anton?”

Ralph swings his hammer into another doorway, but finds no one.

“Where are you guys?”

Ralph kicks open another office.

A giant bat waits inside.

A black fist slams into his jaw, but Ralph rolls with it and swings his hammer at the thing's face. A wing swipes up and the hammer slides off it, then a kick throws Ralph back into the hall.

The bat steps out after him into the window's thin light, and Ralph sees the Batman almost clearly. It's just a man in a suit, a man dressed like a bat, just like Mr. Stills said. He's got a cape, not wings, and his fist flies at Ralph from the dark.

Ralph takes the hit right in his gut, but he can take a punch. He can throw a punch too, so he aims for the Batman's exposed jaw. Easy target.

The Batman steps aside, dodging the hit and putting the hall window at Ralph's back. Another kick sends Ralph back two paces, so he swings the hammer again in response.

The Bat catches it. He jams the handle forward, hitting Ralph in the chest, then yanks the sledge from Ralph's hands. Ralph ducks from an expected hammer blow, but the hammer clatters to the ground and a knee catches him under the chin.

Ralph reels back and the Bat throws punch after punch into his chest, his face, his stomach. Ralph never figured out how to block, and he's too big to dodge really, so the hits start to hurt and all he can do is step back.

The Bat deflects or dodges every swing he throws. Ralph goes for his pistols, but the Bat knocks them away with no regard for their danger. Finally, Ralph's back is against the window, his nose is bleeding, his lips are swollen, and the Bat's still coming.

Ralph throws a last-ditch haymaker and the Bat ducks, then rises with a kick to Ralph's chest.

The window gives behind Ralph. He's falling, he's screaming, he's trying to right himself, trying to land right, trying to hit the huge plastic teddy bear on the way down. He's a big guy, he could take worse falls, but the Bat's watching through the window upstairs and he's got some sort of gun aimed at him.

Ralph hits the plastic bear, bounces off, then something catches him by the foot. Last thing he remembers before the darkness is the shadow of the Bat descending.

  

* * *

 

 

Mr. Stills hears the screaming first, and he's not sure exactly sure of its source. When he hears the thump, when he finally looks up, he only sees Ralph dangling, upside and unconscious, from some sort of rope. His mass bounces against Mr. Stills only cover against the rain, the big plastic teddy bear.

Mr. Still's good hand drops to his automatic, but he knows bullets mean nothing against what's up there. He knows when he steps out, when he looks between the bear's ears, the Bat will be there. But he's a professional, and he also knows his job.

His hands shake as he raises his gun. Ralph bounces against plastic. Rain paints the ground. He steps out, quiet. Maybe the Bat hasn't seen him yet. He can hope yet, he's allowed to hope.

He steps backwards into a puddle, his gun shaking in the teddy bear's direction. Ralph bounces from the plastic, swings forward. Ralph's in the way, he just is, and Mr. Stills will just have to shoot around him. Maybe through him. Rain-water soaks into Mr. Stills' red shoes, but he can't care.

Mr. Stills wipes rain from his eyes and steps back again, in time with Ralph's swing. The Bat waits, perched on the bear's head, something in his hand. In the moment Stills hesitates, the Batman's hand shoots out.

Something cuts Ralph's rope and he flops inelegantly onto the concrete just as Stills pulls the trigger. The muzzle flash blinds the night as automatic fire burns away the teddy bear's face. He can hardly see anything, can hardly aim, but the spray of bullets would disintegrate any man.

When the clip runs empty, Mr. Stills lowers his gun and peers into the smoke, letting his hands reload just in case. The teddy bear's melted face leers at him.

In the thinning smoke, the Batman stands. Bullets clatter away as he unfolds his cape. He looks down at Mr. Stills, at the shaking gun. Mr. Stills raises it, but something shoots from the Bat's fist and pulls it away.

The Batman catches the automatic in his free hand and hops from the teddy bear. He idly dismantles the weapon as he steps forward, as Mr. Stills stumbles back. “Low caliber,” the Bat growls. His voice hardly sounds human. Too deep, too rough. “You should know better.”

Mr. Stills steps back, deeper into the night, and his foot finds water. He slips backwards, falling on his ass like the clown whose costume he wears.

“The hostages. Where are they?”

The Batman's not even touching him, he doesn't have to. He just picks the gun apart and stands over him. Rain flecks down his cowl, but he doesn't bother to wipe it from his face.

Mr. Stills scrabbles backwards in the mud and wet. “Second floor,” he says. “The factory office.”

“How many guards?”

“There were four of us, plus the boss.”

Now that the gun's in pieces, Batman steps forward. His foot lands on Mr. Stills' good hand.

“How many guards?”

“Six! Six! Two front, me back, one each floor!”

Batman nods.

“That's all I know,” Mr. Stills says. “Don't hurt me!”

Batman steps off of Stills' hand.

Stills starts to relax, then the Bat kicks him across his temple and into darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Sarge has heard of the Batman. Anyone in this business as long as him has heard of the Bat, but most practical people, people like Sarge, know a campfire tale when they hear it. Every business has its bogeymen.

But now he's not so sure.

He heard the fight upstairs: someone or something making Ralph a sandbag. He heard the screaming afterward, and the gunfire after that. When he ran to the window, he thought that he saw a shadow slide across the asphalt.

Now he's looking down at Ralph and Stills, lying there unconscious, and he's thinking about the boy's scream upstairs. Stanley went up there too, and he's probably not coming down. Just him and Bill left.

Him, and Bill, and the Bat.

The boss said not to interrupt him, but Sarge isn't sure what else he can do. The boss has to be warned.

Sarge shifts his shotgun to his shoulder, adjusts his mask, and goes for the central office. His fist hovers an inch from the door while he decides what to say, then swallows and lets it fall on the old wood in two quick knocks.

A voice oozes from inside. “Who's there?”

“Sarge.”

“Sarge who?”

“Sarge... Uh, just Sarge.”

There's silence for a moment, and Sarge uses it to imagine the boss's disappointment in him.

“Come on in, Just Sarge.”

Sarge pushes the door open and stumbles inside. He always tries not to look at the hostages, but tonight he can't help but notice there are none. There's a large hole torn in the rotted floor where three men should be sitting, tied to chairs.

The Joker sits on the floor beside the hole, his crowbar lying in front of him like a disappointing toy. He does not look up, and he's almost not smiling.

Sarge scratches under his mask. “What... What happened to the hostages?”

“It would have been such a laugh,” the boss says. “A priest, a rabbi, and a minister, all in one place! The possibilities!”

“What happened?”

“I never even got to decide. A priest, a rabbi, a minister, they all walk into a crowbar. And then what? It's not right without an ending!”

“Where'd they go?”

The Joker springs to his feet and takes Sarge by the suspenders. “Where do you think they went? Bats took 'em! Opened the floor beneath their feet and swept the rug from under mine! I look like a fool, and here's me without my motley!”

Sarge is large and the boss is wiry, but there's a strength there Sarge can't match. The Joker's pale hands lift him from the ground. “Sorry boss!”

“Sure sure, sorry sorry,” the Joker says. “What I need is a punchline.”

“Sorry, boss. I don't got one.”

The boss drops Sarge and turns around. He looks at the hole in the ground, into the darkness downstairs, then turns and grins. “Ah!” he says. “But perhaps you do!”

“What do you mean, boss?”

The Joker kicks the crowbar up into his hands and examines it. “You know what's funny about a crow bar?”

Sarge backs up. He's not sure he wants to know what's funny about a crow bar. The Joker dances forward.

“Every time it's crowded,” the Joker says, flipping the crowbar from hand to hand, “there's a murder.”

“I been with you a long time boss. I'm loyal. I believe in you.”

The Joker slinks forward, crowbar bared. “Then you know, don't you?”

Sarge steps back and back again. He's got a shotgun in his hands, but he wouldn't dare raise it against his boss. “Know what, boss?”

Once Sarge's back hits a wall, the Joker stops, giggles, and turns the crowbar so the pointy end faces Sarge. Sarge's mask is slipping from the sweat, and he's not even sure he's seeing things right. He reaches to straighten it, then the pain comes.

“Every!” The Joker pulls the crowbar from Sarge's side, and blood flows out with it.

“Joke!” Sarge screams, struggles with his mask, but the crowbar sinks into his arm, just above the elbow.

“Needs!” Meat tears with the crowbar now, and the Joker, laughing now, raises it over his head.

“A punch-line!” The crowbar falls toward Sarge's skull.

The last thing Sarge sees is the Joker's grin half-blocked by stretched rubber.

His last thought still doesn't get the joke.

 

* * *

 

 

Bill prides himself on his reliability. When he's told to guard a door, he guards that door. He doesn't move from his spot. It doesn't matter how many screams or fights he hears.

But when he hears explosions inside, floor's collapsing, hostages screaming and running, well, he has to do something.

He readies his rifle and throws the front door open. The lobby's clear. The ridiculous decorations, giant plastic dolls and soldiers and bears, stare at him.

The explosion came from deeper inside, but he's sure it was on this floor. He wishes he had a flashlight. Nowhere to go but forward. In front of him, the door says “Tour Entrance.”

He kicks it open, lowers his rifle. He can't see a foot in front of him. Walls of cracked glass line each side of the hallway, and through these windows he can see forgotten equipment lit by shreds of moonlight from holes in the factory wall. Little moonlight pierces the hallway, but he thinks he can see something ahead of him, some light from the ceiling.

His rifle ready, his eyes on the light, he steps forward. Soon, he recognizes it as the hole it is, the result of the explosion he heard. The light from the room above falls on the remains of broken chairs and loose ropes: evidence of escaped hostages. Evidence of a job failed.

He's not going to find them, either. He'd hear their footsteps echoing through the factory floor if they were still running. The Joker must be furious.

Bill steps forward, looking up through the hole. He's not sure what he expects, but it's not what he finds.

Something's up there, and it's not the boss. The way the light shines, it just looks like a giant shadow. A horned shadow.

Bill knows the Batman when he sees him. But the Batman hasn't seen him yet. Quiet, very quiet, Bill raises his gun.

The Batman bends, picks something up off the ground. Bill's gun shakes.

Batman lifts a crowbar, the Joker's crowbar, and from it hangs Sarge's clown mask, dripping with blood.

Bill lowers his gun.

Maybe, tonight, he'll need the Bat.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stanley comes out of hiding, he's learned all sorts of new things. The most important of these, the thing he never knew before, is that he is a coward.

When he stepped upstairs, when he saw the hulking black figure of the Batman, all he could do was hide. He slipped silently into an emptied filing cabinet, and from there he learned all the new things he could.

He watched the Bat hauling the unconscious kid into a mass of shadows behind a desk, and he learned that the Batman is only human. Despite his horns and cloak and strength, he still grunts when he shifts the desk.

Then Stanley learns that the Batman is soft. He's careful with the kid; he doesn't fling the body around or shove it away, he lays it down comfortably. When the kid comes to, he'll hardly ache.

Then, when Ralph comes upstairs looking for him, Stanley learns the Bat's a coward too. When the floor creaks under Ralph's weight, the Batman doesn't go for him. He hides. Just like Stanley.

When Ralph finds the Bat, Stanley watches the fight with interest. He watches and he learns. The Batman's good, he's fast and he's strong, but Stanley thinks he sees some weakness too. Age, maybe.

Once Ralph falls out the window, Stanley learns that the Batman is weak. He won't even let Ralph fall, not even when he could probably survive the height. He's a bleeding heart, this creature of the night, and he shoots out some sort of grapnel to keep the poor thug alive.

By the time the Batman makes Mr. Stills squeal, Stanley knows all he needs to know. The Bat's a man, weak and afraid as anyone, and he's kept the Gotham underworld whispering and desperate. It's insane.

Stanley decides that when he gets out, once he survives the night, he's gonna fix it.

He, Stanley, Arkham Stanley, he's going to kill the Bat.

Now that the explosions have died down and Sarge has stopped screaming, Stanley feels like it's safe to make his way home. He's got a lot of planning to do. Perhaps a costume to make, he doesn't know.

He slides the cabinet door open and steps out.

The Joker's waiting there in the darkness.

“If a guy walks into a bar,” the Joker says, “and then, despite the headache, walks into it again, does that make it a rebar?”

Joker's holding a rebar, doubtless knocked loose from the building's old concrete. “And what does that make him?”

“Hey boss,” Stanley says. “I didn't see you there.”

“Two guys walk into a bar,” the Joker explains. “The third one, well, he was holding it.”

The length of metal slams into Stanley's knee. The Joker giggles.

“You won't walk so well now! The bar will have to walk into you.”

Stanley tries to limp backwards, tries to wave his machetes. “I'm working for you! I'm on your side!”

The Joker swings the rebar into Stanley's last good knee. “A guy crawls into a bar. 'I'm cutting you off,' the bartender says. 'You can't even stand up!' The guy sighs. 'Well,' he says, 'it'll have to be an arm this time. They already got my legs!'”

“What'd I ever do to you?”

The Joker laughs and shrugs. “The show must go on.”

 

* * *

 

 

The muffled screams leaking from the attic show Bill next move, his only move. He has to get out. He's the last one.

Stumbling over broken chairs and glass, he runs down the hallway toward the exit. Judging by the screams, the Joker's on the third floor. If Bill runs fast enough, he'll get out before the Joker's down the stairs.

The back entrance lies behind employee doors and work rooms, but even in the dark and desperation Bill manages to follow the dark exit signs. He holds his rifle at his side as he runs, using it only to slam doors from his path.

He can hear footsteps behind him getting closer. Doors slam in rooms behind him. He wonders if he should hide, defend himself, but can hardly see to shoot in here. If he just gets outside, he can keep his rifle on the door.

He finds the exit at the end of a hallway of loading bays and puts his knee into it. The door opens before him just as a door slams open behind him. He turns, stepping back, and he sees a dark form sliding into the hallway before the back door swings back shut.

He steps backward, shaking as he aims his rifle at the back entrance. The teddy bear above it is pocked with bullets and marred by melting plastic, but he can't quite see above it. He blinks rain out of his eyes, then trips backwards over Ralph's unconscious body.

His gun goes off when his head hits the wet concrete, but the bullet only becomes another embedded in the teddy-bear's face. He tries to aim again, swings the gun to the door, but it's still shut.

The rain's stinging his eyes and he thinks he sees something on the plastic bear, so he moves to stand.

Before he can get to his feet, the Joker lands on him.

“And where were we going?”

Bill doesn't know what to say, so the Joker shows him his bloody rebar.

“A soldier and a madman walked into a bar. Then the guy sits down.”

Bill tries a smile. “That's a good one, boss.”

“Of course it's a good one: I'm telling it!”

“'Course, boss.”

“Here's another.” The Joker giggles and raises his rebar over Bill's head. “Why'd the old man walk into the bar?”

A door slams open, the rebar clanks to the ground, and Joker stands. “Bats!”

“Bats? Why bats?”

A bladed black bat juts from the Joker's arm. The Batman stands in the toy factory's doorway, holding more just like it. “Let him go,” the Batman growls.

The Joker howls with laughter, scoops the rebar from the ground and hurtles toward the Bat. Batman catches the metal mid-swing, pries it from the Joker's hand, and gives him a kick backward.

Bill struggles to his feet, raising his gun toward the fight.

The Joker hurls himself at Batman like an animal, but the Bat keeps him back with a flurry of punches. Bill's not sure which one to shoot.

Batman swings at the Joker, knocks him down, then throws something at Bill. Bill's rifle falls from his hands with a black metal bat stuck in the barrel. “No guns,” the Batman says.

Though the Joker kicks up, Batman falls on him with a pair of cuffs.

“It would have been a good joke,” the Joker says. “You'd have to laugh.”

“I've got no time for jokes.”

Joker kicks at him despite the cuffs. He flails like a child in a tantrum. The Batman meets Bill's eyes before his fist knocks the Joker still. “Just punch-lines.”

Bill turns and runs.

He leaves his gun, leaves his red rubber nose, and just runs. The rain washes that awful grease-paint as he runs through it. The clown clothes he wore over normal, people clothes, so he just sheds them as he goes.

He won't need them any more. He's going home.

Home, to Helen and the baby, to Helen and Sarah.

Home, safe from the Joker, safe from the Batman.

Old Bill's too old for this stuff.

Tomorrow, he's gonna get himself a real job.


End file.
